Fentiman laughed, and ground out the offending cigarette stub on the nearest ashtray.
“I wonder anybody cares to know you,” he said. The strain and bitterness had left his voice and he sounded merely amused.
“They wouldn’t,” said Wimsey, “only they think I’m too well-off to have any brains. It’s like hearing that the Earl of Somewhere is taking a leading part in a play. Everybody takes it for granted he must act rottenly. I’ll tell you my secret. All my criminological investigations are done for me by a ‘ghost’ at £3 a week, while I get the headlines and frivol with well-known journalists at the Savoy.”
“I find you refreshing, Wimsey,” said Fentiman, languidly. “You’re not in the least witty, but you have a kind of obvious facetiousness which reminds me of the less exacting class of music-hall.”
“It’s the self-defense of the first-class mind against the superior person,” said Wimsey. “But, look here, I’m sorry to hear about Sheila. I don’t want to be offensive, old man, but why don’t you let me—”
“Damned good of you,” said Fentiman, “but I don’t care to. There’s honestly not the faintest chance I could ever pay you, and I haven’t quite got to the point yet—”
“Here’s Colonel Marchbanks,” broke in Wimsey, “we’ll talk about it another time. Good evening, Colonel.”
“Evening, Peter. Evening, Fentiman. Beautiful day it’s been. No—no cocktails, thanks, I’ll stick to whisky. So sorry to keep you waiting like this, but I was having a yarn with poor old Grainger upstairs. He’s in a baddish way, I’m afraid. Between you and me, Penberthy doesn’t think he’ll last out the winter. Very sound man, Penberthy—wonderful, really, that he’s kept the old man going so long with his lungs in that frail state. Ah, well! it’s what we must all come to. Dear me, there’s your grandfather, Fentiman. He’s another of Penberthy’s miracles. He must be ninety, if he’s a day. Will you excuse me for a moment? I must just go and speak to him.”
Wimsey’s eyes followed the alert, elderly figure as it crossed the spacious smoking-room, pausing now and again to exchange greetings with a fellow-member of the Bellona Club. Drawn close to the huge fireplace stood a great chair with ears after the Victorian pattern. A pair of spindle shanks with neatly-buttoned shoes propped on a foot stool were all that was visible of General Fentiman.
“Queer, isn’t it,” muttered his grandson, “to think that for Old Mossy-face there the Crimea is still the War, and the Boer business found him too old to go out. He was given his commission at seventeen, you know—was wounded at Majuba—”
He broke off. Wimsey was not paying attention. He was still watching Colonel Marchbanks.
The Colonel came back to them, walking very quietly and precisely. Wimsey rose and went to meet him.
“I say, Peter,” said the Colonel, his kind face gravely troubled, “just come over here a moment. I’m afraid something rather unpleasant has happened.”
Fentiman looked round, and something in their manner made him get up and follow them over to the fire.
Wimsey bent down over General Fentiman and drew the Morning Post gently away from the gnarled old hands, which lay clasped over the thin chest. He touched the shoulder—put his hand under the white head huddled against the side of the chair. The Colonel watched him anxiously. Then, with a quick jerk, Wimsey lifted the quiet figure. It came up all of a piece, stiff as a wooden doll.
Fentiman laughed. Peal after hysterical peal shook his throat. All round the room, scandalized Bellonians creaked to their gouty feet, shocked by the unmannerly noise.
“Take him away!” said Fentiman, “take him away. He’s been dead two days! So are you! So am I! We’re all dead and we never noticed it!”
II
The Queen Is Out
It is doubtful which occurrence was more disagreeable to the senior members of the Bellona Club—the grotesque death of General Fentiman in their midst or the indecent neurasthenia of his grandson. Only the younger men felt no sense of outrage; they knew too much. Dick Challoner—known to his intimates as Tin-Tummy Challoner, owing to the fact that he had been fitted with a spare part after the second battle of the Somme—took the gasping Fentiman away into the deserted library for a stiffener. The Club Secretary hurried in, in his dress-shirt and trousers, the half-dried lather still clinging to his jaws. After one glance he sent an agitated waiter to see if Dr. Penberthy was still in the Club. Colonel Marchbanks laid a large silk handkerchief reverently over the rigid face in the armchair and remained quietly standing. A little circle formed about the edge of the hearthrug, not quite certain what to do. From time to time it was swelled by fresh arrivals, whom the news had greeted in the hall as they wandered in. A little group appeared from the bar. “What? old Fentiman?” they said. “Good God, you don’t say so. Poor old blighter. Heart gone at last, I suppose”; and they extinguished cigars and cigarettes, and stood by, not liking to go away again.
Dr. Penberthy was just changing for dinner. He came down hurriedly, caught just as he was going out to an Armistice dinner, his silk hat tilted to the back of his head, his coat and muffler pushed loosely open. He was a thin, dark man with the abrupt manner which distinguishes the Army Surgeon from the West-end practitioner. The group by the fire made way for him, except Wimsey, who hung rather foolishly upon the big elbow-chair, gazing in a helpless way at the body.
Penberthy ran practiced hands quickly over
